


the dislocated room

by westminster



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Telepathy, X-Men: First Class (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminster/pseuds/westminster
Summary: Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	the dislocated room

**Author's Note:**

> My friend made me watch all the x-men films this weekend, and I loved them! The road trip scenes in XMFC reminded me of one of my favorite Richard Siken poems, and I wanted to write a little fic based on that. enjoy!

"The door swung wide: twin beds, twin lamps, twin plastic cups  
wrapped up in cellophane  
and he says _No Henry, let's not do this_  
Can you see the plot like dotted lines across the room?"  
\- The Dislocated Room, Richard Siken

The rooms they rent are all the same. Then, perhaps not - there was that one place: all pink walls, bright yellow lamps. It felt like a fever dream. But it’s essence was the same as the others. They _feel_ the same. That's what Charles is trying to say. Maybe. Maybe not. 

Take this one, the one Charles and Erik have rented tonight. They’re in Texas, close to the border. There are deer antlers above the beds. A picture of a herd of horses on the cabinet. But there are still two beds, two bedside tables, two lamps. Standing in the doorway, Erik’s trainers leaving mud on the carpet, it feels like being in a house of mirrors. Charles had been in one once, ran away with Raven to the local funfair. He’d cried afterwards, guilt seeping in. He doesn't want to think about that. This room, that’s what he's thinking about, hotel rooms in general. How they all mirror each other. An optical illusion that draws a dotted line down the middle of the room as if to say _you are not allowed on the other side of the room. you are two men and men do not share their halves._

Charles and Erik have obeyed these rules, so far. They try to do the same tonight. Charles makes a joke about the antlers on the wall; not a very funny one. Erik laughs out of politeness. There's a tension in the room, something tangible, that you could reach out and feel, thick as molasses. Charles' own thoughts are so prominent that he can't get a read on Erik, his mind is jumbled, like television static. Charles thinks he might vomit.

"Do you mind if I use the bathroom first?" he says, already heading to the open door. He doesn't think he could turn around now anyway.

"Not at all."

Charles' fingers grip the sides of the sink, he imagines bending the sink like Erik bends metal, wishes the cold white would succumb to his touch. He closes his eyes tightly, praying that the throbbing in his temples will subside. The tap isn't very powerful, they never are, but it's enough to splash his face, bring him to. He forces himself to take a glance in the mirror, expecting to see a gaunt figure of what he once was. Instead, he thinks he looks younger than before. Healthy. There is nothing wrong with him. _So why are his hands shaking? Why is his mind clouded? What does he want? What is he asking for? What is the right word for what he wants - are there any right words?_ He wants to scream, that's what he wants.

Charles begins to sieve through his memories, cataloging and archiving: cleaning up. But it's not the past that's tormenting him. It's the present, that girl, what happened today. He can smell that scent on him, the scent of a strip club. The neon lights are burned into his eyes, he feels like he will never know peace again. It's not the pretty girl that haunts him. He wishes it was. It was the bed. One bed between them both. There was no divide in that room, nothing to separate himself from Erik. He had followed Erik, unquestioning. Like he always does. _And they shared a bed._ Erik's elbow pressed against his own, not deliberate, just because it fit there, fit next to Charles. Charles did not think about what Erik said, what Erik said to the girl, because he was so aware of the places they were touching. Shoulders, elbows, hips, thighs. Maybe their toes could have touched too, if Charles stretched out, but he dismissed it as too risky. He remembers Erik's thigh, bold and persistent against his own, that feeling of someone else's warmth bleeding into your skin, mingling. Charles relished it: the comfort of someone else touching him, their bodies touching and Erik not pulling away.

Charles touches his own thighs now, in this grim, seedy bathroom. Fingers splay over corduroy and he touches his body the way that Erik might touch him. Light, shaky. Like a ghost you never manage to capture on film. He imagines a lover, being loved, loving back. He turns the tap off and watches his fantasies go down the drain.

Charles feels a little better now, well enough to face Erik again. He decides to forgo a shower tonight. He likes the way he still smells of that place, wants to make the memory of him and Erik last a little longer. He changes into his pajamas shakily: they're silk, baby blue, and have earned him a few chuckles from Erik. Charles brushes his teeth quickly, swills down the mouthwash, now he's presentable. 

When he opens the door, Erik is there, hand poised, about to knock. It makes Charles jump. That throws him off kilter a little bit, irritated that he didn't feel Erik's presence.

"Everything okay?" 

"Yes," Charles lies. It's an easy lie to tell, familiar on his lips. 

Erik stares at him. Really stares at him. Charles feels drunk, wishes he was drunk. He swallows hard, watches Erik's eyes follow his throat, exposed as he looks up to Erik. He swallows again, mouth dry. Charles monitors the rise and fall of Erik's chest, heavy and rhythmic, and wonders what his head would feel like pressed against Erik's chest. He wants, so badly, to reach out and touch, to mark, to love-

"You gonna let me in? You're not hiding something in there, are you?"

Charles comes back to himself, realizes he's _loitering_ and moves out of the way, forcing a laugh. 

Erik shuts the door behind him, and Charles is left alone. He can feel Erik's presence, hear the music playing in his head, that awful Billy Joel song they'd heard on the car radio this morning. He still feels lonely. Empty. He walks over to his half of the room, lies on the bed. His fingers hover over the book he's half-way through, coming back to rest on his lap. He can't concentrate on a book right now. Charles rests his head against the pillow, closes his eyes even though he's wide awake. He tunes into Erik's mind, just the surface level thoughts, though. Erik's always been okay with that. Charles filters out the noise of shower, until it's purely Erik, and listens in as Erik recites his favorite songs. He starts with a Leonard Cohen song - _Suzanne_ , he thinks, he's not sure - they all sound the same. Then The Kinks start, they both quite like them. Charles lets the melody play in the background, the band's voice mixed with Erik's, _strangers on this road we are on/we are not two, we are one..._

This time, he pays attention to what Erik is doing, listens when the shower is turned off, picks up on the sounds of a toothbrush, the rustle of fabric and the squeaking of the door. When he opens his eyes, Erik is staring at him. Charles thinks he is ready for this. He isn't, and looks away. He turns so that he is facing the wall. Scans for any cracks or chips he can pretend to be very interested in. There isn't. He carries on staring a hole into the wall, cataloging Erik's footsteps. They come closer, closer, closer. It's not a large room. A few footsteps and he's crossed the boundary.

And Charles wants to scream, wants to stop him, wants to yell and brandish his fists like a madman. _Can you not see the line? Do you not know what barriers you've broken? Do you not see the wall you have torn down?_ He has to think these things very carefully, very calmly. He is a coward and Erik must not know what he wants to tell him. Erik stands, only a few footsteps away from Charles' bed. He stays there for a little bit. Charles is too occupied by his own thoughts to tune into Erik's. Erik is too close: he is in his half of the room, in his space, in Charles himself. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but Erik's mind is coming closer still, far past the fabricated line, becoming a weight on his bed and he has broken every barrier now, even the mental ones. There is nothing left, and suddenly that makes Charles feel very confident like maybe if he opens his eyes right now and sees Erik looking back at him, close and open and unrestrained, he will kiss and kiss the man and not care about what's at stake. Before he can, there's hand on his calf. It's so warm. Warmer than Charles ever thought another human could be, especially Erik. It feels - no, _Erik_ feels - like sunlight. Charles wonders if anyone's ever gone insane with longing before. Maybe he will.

"Look at me," comes Erik's voice. Bold. Direct. It doesn't reveal anything.

Charles sits up. His head spins. This would be a rather awkward time to vomit, he thinks, but the nausea passes.

"Are you okay?" 

And what can he say to that?

"My mind," is what Charles does answer with, eventually. And it's not an excuse, he justifies to himself, he really is having problems with his mind, it's just the cause of those problems he's keeping secret from Erik. Because the secret has always been Erik.

"Headache?"

"Yes," he says, and Erik looks at him like something to be pitied, and that makes Charles a little angry so he adds, "It'll fade eventually. You don't have to worry."

Charles shuts his eyes, hoping Erik will take the hint. Instead, Erik whispers, "Come here." Charles can't refuse an offer like that.

Erik stretches out onto the bed, in the empty space Charles has gotten used to sleeping next to. His back is against the headboard, looking down at Charles. Charles rises, a little, and Erik tugs him close, so close he feels like he might melt into Erik's skin, mold into him like metal in a furnace. Erik's hand is in his hair, stroking, scratching. He cards his hands through Charles' soft locks, and no one, no one has ever touched him like this. His hair has been ruffled by teachers who liked him, tugged by lovers in the dark, but nothing this sweet, never this maternal. Charles wants to weep, he has never felt love like this before. And yes, he's sure this is love now, the feelings from Erik are strong, clear-cut, like a radio that's been turned up. Erik isn't trying to repress, run or hide: the walls are falling from around them.

Charles is so, so sure that he tilts his head, leans up, brings his lips to Erik's. They kiss carefully, chaste, and Erik is so gentle that if this continues Charles really will cry tonight. Yes, yes he was right, he has never, never been loved like this before. Erik breaks the kiss, _rest_ , he says, cradling Charles' head against his bare chest. He listens to the steady _thrum thrum thrum_ of Erik's heart, Erik's nose in Charles' scalp, pressing soft kisses to his head. Erik's hand rests low, brushes against Charles' hips, then slips under the baby blue shirt, making the other man laugh into his skin. _Ticklish_ , Erik files that away for another time. His hand travels lower, massaging the skin under the waistband of Charles' pajama bottoms. Charles thrusts upwards, gasping at the smallest bit of contact. Erik takes that as a sign to continue, pulling the trousers down a little, so Charles' cock, now fairly interested in what's happening, can be freed. Erik strokes him slowly, a feather-light touch, more sensual than sexual. Charles gasps, throws his head up, throat bared. _Yes, Erik, Erik,_ he thinks, _Erik, Erik, Erik,_ and that's at the forefront of his mind: that it's Erik's hand on his cock, it's Erik making him feel these things, it's Erik's mouth on his cheek, pressing wet kisses to his skin. Another person's touch has never felt so good, so right, and Charles feels the tensions fall from him. He frees his mind, letting thoughts stray freely between him and Erik, but it only amounts to _yeses_ and _pleases_ and _more, faster, harder, more._

Erik keeps the pace slow though, partly to tease, mostly because he doesn't want Charles to strain anything. _He works so hard,_ Erik thinks, fingertips gliding over Charles' ribs, his stomach, like he's made of porcelain. Charles doesn't last long under Erik's touch, when Erik's mind is thinking all those things about him, he can feel his orgasm beginning to build. _Close_ , he thinks to Erik, but Erik already knows, knows Charles' body like it's his second skin, like he's been inside it before. Erik has already sped up his pace, quick and with vigor, so it only takes a few tugs to tip Charles over the edge, coming over Erik's open hands.

They rest there, pants filling the room as Charles lets his mind calm down. A little while later, Charles feels like he has come to, has regained enough autonomy to move onto his stomach and look Erik in the eyes. Erik raises an eyebrow, questioning, hand coming to cradle Charles' jaw. Charles moves his hand to the drawstring on Erik's sweatpants, gliding over the hardness he finds there.

"Not tonight," Erik whispers, "you need to sleep."

And whilst Erik in his hand and in his mouth sounds like a dream, his orgasm has made him even more tired than he was before.

He looks up at Erik and says behind hooded lashes, "Are you sure? I don't mind-"

Erik knows better, Erik knows _him_ better. He shakes his head, kisses Charles gently before moving to the bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, wipes Charles' skin clean, washes the mess away. When Erik returns, he pulls the blanket over Charles, tucks it just under Charles' neck. It's a little cold outside, and the heating isn't the best, but here, under the covers, things are toasty, and Charles' body fits comfortably in Erik's arms. They lie on their backs, Charles' head on Erik's chest, Erik's arm is slung loosely around his hip, his nose in Charles' hair: it's perfect, absolute bliss. So blissful, in fact, he's able to tune out the buzz of Erik's mind, able to quiet things down enough to slip into sleep. Before he does, he glances over at the empty bed, untouched, the line between the beds, gone. He is here, in Erik's arms, held tight: protected, wanted. Charles tilts his head, pressing a lazy kiss to Erik's chest, because he _can_ , he can kiss that skin now, now and tomorrow and the day after that, and the next, if things keep going well. Possibly the day after that too, he hopes so. God, Charles hopes so. He falls asleep, grinning. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr: @mandelsons


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